Sick as a Doornail
by Sharlot
Summary: Dean mixes his medications and his idioms. Sam tries to help him with both. Set S7. Sick!Stubborn!Dean. Caring!Frustrated!Sam. Graphic depiction of idiom abuse.


_**A/N: I'd like to thank my beta, Sue Pokorny, for helping me get all my ducks on the same page!**_

_**Sick as a Doornail**_

"Jesus, Dean. What all did you take?"

Sam shakes his brother with one hand, inspects the medicine bottles and boxes littering the table with the other. Dean lurches up from the laptop where he'd face-planted, pulls a long strand of drool with him until it snaps and hits him in the lip. A pyramid of used tissues collapses, tumbles to the floor.

"Dun' feel so good, Sabby. Quid shakin', wouldja?"

"You're high as a kite, Dean. Nyquil, Robitussin, Theraflu _and_ whiskey? Are you out of your mind? Get up and go to bed. You're not gonna get over the flu if you keep pushing yourself like this." He points to the computer screen.

"I'b workin' here…godda find that dick, Dick. The dick. People are droppin' like hotcakes, Sabby."

"People are—drop—hot—what?" Sam stumbles over his words, stops, swallows some air and chooses to ignore the whole thing. He plows ahead. "Dude, Frank's workin' on it. He'll call us if there's any news. Give it a rest for tonight. Come on, get up."

Dean shrugs out from under Sam's grip. "Hold your cows. I'll go t'bed when I'b damn good and ready. And I'b not ready."

"Uh, _'Horses'_, Dean."

"Th'fuck you talkin' 'bout?"

"You're mixing your idioms. It's either '_Hold your horses'_ or '_Wait 'til the cows come home'_, one or the other but not both. You're confused." Sam places a hand on his brother's forehead, feels the fever radiating off of him.

Dean dusts Sam's hand off, scowls at his brother with a slack jaw and glassy eye. "What kinna asshat game you smokin,'?"

"Dude, you just did it ag—" Sam stops, rolls his eyes, composes himself. "Just—just never mind. Whatever you say, Dean. Come on. Let me help you get to bed."

"Quiddit."

"Quit what, Dean?"

Dean grabs a tissue, gives the end a haughty twist and shoves the pinched portion up his nostril, plugging it. The rest dangles and quivers while he talks. "I'b not the sharpest penny in the toolshed, but I'b not an idiot. I know when I'b being paganized."

Sam's sucks in a breath, flutters his lashes while he prays to the ceiling for patience. When his jaw stops pulsing, he says, "I think you mean _'patronized'_."

"Well, as long as you adbit it, I guess I'b manly edough to forget."

"No, wait—what? Dude, that's not what I s—" Sam's shoulders slump, nostrils flare. "Umm, you know what, Dean? Never mind. You're clearly not up for this conversation. Now will you please let me get you on your feet and help you over to the bed?"

Dean shakes him off. "Take a flying hike, dude. I don' godda jump at the drop of a pin just 'cause you say _'Boo'_."

"'_Hat'_, Dean."

Dean does a bobble-headed double-take. "Dude…you sick or somethin'? You're talkin' dodsense."

"The expression is '_Drop of a hat'_ or '_So quiet you could hear a pin drop'_. That's all I'm saying. You've got a pretty high fever, Dean, and you need sleep. Trust me, I know you, man. You'll feel much better after a good night's rest."

"Know me? You dun' know me from a stick in the mud, pal. I'b fine."

Sam releases a long, wheezing sigh, pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten—twice.

"'_Adam'_."

"Who?"

"The saying is '_You don't know me from Adam'_ or _'Don't be a stick in the mud'_."

"Adam? Great, thags for the reminder, bitch. Like I need that on my conscience, too. As if Bobby isn't edough."

"Okay, that's it, you're done." Sam reaches under this brother's armpits, bodily lifts him to his feet.

"Hey! Watchoo doon'?" Dean totters and sways, gives no help to Sam who staggers under his dead weight.

"Bed. Now. Dean."

"Well, you're up a shitty tree without a paddle, bub. I'b stayin' put."

Sam hoists his brother into a fireman's carry. Dean woofs and his tissue-nose-plug flies through the air like a missile. "It's _'shit creek'._" Sam carries Dean to the bed.

"You list'nin' to yourself, Sabby? You're delirious."

"That makes two of us, then." Sam folds at the waist, drops Dean onto the bed. The fevered man curls in on himself, uses his cheek to dig a trench into his pillow. Sam reaches over and pulls the blanket off his bed, covers his brother, tucks the ends around him. "There. Now, was that so damn hard? You'll feel better in the morning, you'll see."

Dean puffs out a hot breath. "Don' coun' your sour grapes before they hatch. I still feel like shit."

"'_Chickens'_, Dean."

Dean opens one eye, closes it again. "I'b not the chicken. You're the chicken…" His muttering trails off, "…chicken."

Sam rubs his brother's back. "Get some sleep."

"I hate habbin' the flu, Sabby, but this feels kinna nice." Dean relaxes under Sam's soothing hand. Another moment, a few more rubs and Dean falls asleep, snores loudly around his stuffy nose.

A wisp of a smile creases the corners of Sam's mouth. He winks, bends close to his brother's ear, whispers, "Well there you go, Dean. I guess the saying's true: _'Every lemon has a silver lining'_, right?"

Dean twitches, smacks his gums, mutters in his sleep, "It's _'cloud'_, y'dumb-hole."

Sam groans. "Ass."

_**The End**_


End file.
